The Furious Night
by CaptainAmberRose
Summary: Set between 7x06 (Slash Fiction) and 7x07 (The Mentalists), Dean's guilt threatens to overwhelm him after Sam leaves. But something far worse is lurking in his immediate future.
1. Chapter 1

I've finally caved and written a Supernatural fanfiction, so I hope everyone enjoys it. Please feel free to given constructive criticism, I do appreciate it. This will be a multi-chapter fanfic if people like it.

As ever, I don't own anything related to Supernatural, much as I wish otherwise. Please read and review. This story includes a quote from Episode 5x16 (The Dark Side of the Moon) shown in Italics.

This is set between episodes 7x06 (Slash Fiction) and 7x07 (The Mentalists)

...

Tiredness gnaws him to the bone, but sleep won't come easy tonight. The motel room echoes his every move, mocking him bitterly, taunting him with the knowledge that he is utterly, utterly alone. He stares up at the ceiling, watching the yellowed ceiling age with vacant eyes.

The other bed lies empty, sheets made, unslept in. Grabbing a twin room is second nature, something he no longer even thinks about, and now it only serves as a sour reminder of just how badly he's fucked this up.

Because Sam is _gone_.

He's gone and God knows – God's another issue entirely these days – God knows if Sammy's ever coming back again. It's like this every time the kid leaves, and hell, that's happened more times than he'd like to count. The buzzing in his brain is only silenced by a swig of cheap whiskey and this stuff has gotta be seven parts lighter fluid and three parts petrol, but as long as it does the job and kills his brain cells faster than head-butting a goddam wall, then it's good enough for him. Sam is gone and he doesn't want to think anymore. Sam'd laugh and tell him he doesn't do much thinking anyway. He takes another swig.

It's not as if he doesn't deserve it of course – being alone. Even heaven and hell can read the pattern.

_Everybody leaves you Dean, have you noticed? Mommy, Daddy, even Sam. Ever ask yourself why? Maybe it's not them. Maybe it's you._

He scrubs at his eyes with a grubby sleeve.

For the first time, he regrets not taking Bobby up on his offer. Bed and a beer. The old man's been a better father to him than his own – not that he'd ever mention it aloud. But he's of a mind that makes him piss poor company and Bobby's got enough on his plate right now. Beer just won't cut it and the angry buzz clawing at the back of his brain can only be soothed by crappy booze and killing. But the newspapers are devoid of anything that smells like them- like him. _Sam_ has the laptop. And Dean doesn't have the money or energy to seek out an internet café in the arse end of nowhere.

So he's lying here, acting like an alcoholic and halfway to wasted while Sam's disappointed, hurt face swims in front of his eyes, over and over. So maybe he shouldn't have killed the Kitsune. But she – it had killed people. Would probably kill again, despite all the promises and all the begging. Leaving it alive was like turning a blind eye to a serial killer, just because it had sworn to change its ways. But the kid – he'd never intended for the kid to see that. He'd become a hunter to stop kids like Sam being orphaned by things that went bump in the dark, and for the Kitsune's son to see him gank her went against everything he stood for. Turned _himself_ into the thing that went bump in the dark.

So he hates himself for doing it – but how could he not?

A rustle snaps his mind from self-loathing to alert in a fraction of a second. He's drunk, but he's not _that_ drunk. The room is still empty. The whispering in his head grows louder, more intense. He blinks, tilting his head. Silence again. Could the alcohol be making him hear things? Hallucinations are more Sam's thing after all. He forces himself to sitting, fighting the dizziness that snatches at him from the change in altitude.

The room no longer echoes. It is utterly silent, and for a second he wonders if he has gone deaf and not realised it. The air is thin and he finds himself struggling for breath, the oxygen tasting dry and harsh as he heaves it in. Clutching at the bed, he launches himself to standing, wondering absently if he has finally consumed enough alcohol to poison himself. The whispering grows in volume, the voices angrier, shriller, crueller.

A sudden breeze tugs at his hair - cold and chill.

But the windows are sealed and the door bolted. There should be no breeze here at all. No air con, nothing. Something else is at play here and it stinks of the supernatural. He staggers towards his duffle, leaning heavily on the wall as he does. Mist blurs his eyes and in panic, he fumbles blindly, fingers latching on the ragged stitching of his bag, searching for a gun. The knife at his belt won't do crap against a ghost and this has half a dozen hallmarks of spirit activity.

Seems like the fuglies have brought the party to him.

...

Thanks for reading. Please review :)


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you to everyone who reviewed or followed this fanfic, I do appreciate it. Also, if anyone does have any requests for fics (either Supernatural, The Hobbit or Harry Potter fandoms), feel free to suggest them, as I'm now taking requests again! Here's Part 2.

…

He doesn't remember going to sleep.

His head hurts like a bitch, his skin itches and it feels like someone – or rather _something_ has tried to turn him inside out while he slept. And to make things worse, he ain't in Kansas anymore. The motel room is gone, switched for somewhere that looks awfully like an abandoned warehouse and what is it about fuglies that makes them gaga for these places? One of these days he's gonna hunt something with some kind of taste in interior design – this icy, bare concrete is doing nothing for his joints.

As the blood returns to his extremities, he finds to his dismay that he's unarmed. Whatever _it_ is, it's clever. And it clearly has a fair bit of juice behind it, what with the teleporting and all. Not good. He's down a man, without a weapon and he has no goddamn idea what the hell he's supposed to be hunting. The odds might be against him, but this thing hasn't accounted for the blistering drive of severely pissed off Winchester burning in his blood.

Leviathans are taking over the freaking planet, Cas might be gone forever and Sam has ditched him for better company – whatever _it_ is – it's going down. And it's going down screaming.

He flexes numb fingers, wondering distractedly why he isn't bound hand and foot. Maybe _it_ doesn't have opposable thumbs – or perhaps worse…. _maybe it likes to play with its food_. Great, just great. He crawls unsteadily to his feet, taking in the delightfully washed out grey walls and the inch thick layer of cobwebs that covers every surface with wild abandon. Clearly no-one's been here for some time.

The warehouse has the same air of utter silence as the motel before. But it's more than silence – it's almost as if sound has never existed at all. Every scuff of the floor, the crack of his knuckles, the creak of the half open door – swallowed whole. He peers around the doorway, hand unconsciously at his empty belt, grasping at air. A long, dark corridor stretches out ahead of him, towards a door that glows ever so faintly around the edges. It beckons alarmingly, tantalisingly and he steps through the doorway in a trance-like state. Whatever _it_ is, it's at the end of this corridor. And it wants him to find it.

That's disconcerting. He misses the old days – wendigos, vampires, werewolves. All of them vicious bastards when it came down to it, but you could kill 'em straight with a little tracking and a bit of know-how. And they certainly didn't kidnap people from motel rooms, zap them to the middle of nowhere and play fricking _hide and seek_ before chewing on your carcass. And Sam had been by his side of course then. He'd been such a kid then – even at twenty two. Damn, he misses that version of his little brother. Back when Sam was Sammy and Dad was still alive – those were the days.

It wasn't the same anymore. He used to do this job because he loved it, loved killing the monsters, loved saving people, loved being on the road with his Dad and Sam. Now it was just the killing. He'd never been tired of hunting, but now most days he felt like locking himself in a motel room and drinking himself into oblivion. Hunting had lost its charm.

He blinks in the darkness, feeling completely isolated in the inky black. Waving a hand in front of him, he can barely make out his fingers. The doorway ahead glows warm and bright, kindly and inviting. Dimly, he wonders what fate lies ahead of him through the doorway – wonders who, if anyone, will find his body if he fails? Would he lie undiscovered, unburied and forgotten, gathering dust like the rest of the warehouse until he has utterly rotted away? How long would it take Sam to realise that he was missing?

_Probably months_, he muses. By which time, he'd be long dead and no-one would ever know where to look. The thought is simultaneously sobering and depressing. His anger has all but faded to nothingness, his energy sapped by the dark.

Wearily, he staggers forward blindly, seeking out the bright, bright light.

And the whispering begins again.

Except this time, he can understand them.

_Dean, Dean, Dean_.

They are calling him.

And they are _angry_. _So_ angry. He can hear the hate in their voices. The pain. Crying out to him, crying out for him – to damn him, to drag him down to hell. To _burn_.

_Dean, Dean, Dean_.

His guts twist, telling him to run, to leave, to turn around and find a way out – but he can't move. He can only stagger forwards, forwards. Because some part of him knows – just like Osiris knew, just like the yellow eyed demon, like Cas, like every single mind-reading fugly knew – that he was guilty of things, things that could never be forgiven. Things that he could never forgive himself for.

And he deserved to be punished.

He stretches out shaking fingers towards the handle, watching the glow bathe his fingertips like a soft caress. The light is surprisingly cold – akin to dipping his fingers in an ice bucket – but he does not withdraw, despite all his instincts screaming at him to move.

He grasps the handle, pushing the door tentatively inwards to soak in a scorching radiance of yellow-gold light that envelops him utterly.

He is blinded, vision blistered by the sheer brightness before him.

And a silhouette, a silhouette in the centre of the room, unilluminated in the brightness. It is jarringly, painfully familiar and for a half-second he stands there in disbelief.

_Sam_?

….

Thanks for reading. Please review!


End file.
